False Gods, Fallen Angels
by Second Circle
Summary: ...


7

The peak soared, an unbreakable mass of black obsidian, obstinately rising out of the plains to challenge the sun. The rough corridors glowed with a fiendish light that seemed to revel in the blood that was being spilled. Two groups of mortal men fought a fierce battle, both sides equally convinced of their righteousness. Blood flowed freely, soaking the thirsty earth, and staining the ground black, heightening the sinister sense of claustrophobia that was created by the rough cave. One side rallied, waving their black banner high, screaming their war cry; a brutal, mindless chant in a tongue that bespoke an evil far more ancient than even the men themselves. They yelled the name of their king, finding strength in the guttural tones, reminding themselves that failure would bring a fate far, far worse than death. They stood as if bracing themselves against a strong wind, feet planted wide and head thrown back in a mindless scream. The meaning of the ancient words was lost on their enemies, the message was clear: "We will never yield! We will not stop until your blood sates the thirsty earth!" Their enemies balked, the power of the words terrifying them for a brief moment. They were not able to comprehend the boundless, terrifying depth of the hate that stood against them. The darkness seemed infinite and insatiable, demanding an answer to the challenge.

These men were the elite, the absolute best of the absolute best. From far and wide they had been arrayed, handpicked and trained from young ages in order to combat the very enemies that were in front of them. They had grappled each with their own demons and had come out on top. Each had been put through tests that would have left lesser man shattered, body, mind, and soul. But still, they paused, second guesses flashing across their minds: these enemies were so totally convinced of their power, their ability, their sense that what they were doing was right. They were completely stopped for a moment, unable to continue, their expressionless faces twisted with doubt, their unshakable faith shaken.

A single figure near the rear of the group was especially shaken. He was a young looking man who had just joined the group recently, and he was sure that these powerful and wise men could handle anything at all. These were his heroes, his role models, his mentors, and they were beginning to fail. The man let his head droop, trying desperately to compose himself when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw a man roughly around his age, clothed in loose-fitting black clothes, with shockingly white hair that fell over his shoulders and down his back. The man's eyes were completely calm and reassured, like the sea on a summer's day, gently disturbed yet placid, and yet there was a hint of steel there, refusing to give up or back down, no matter the strength of the enemy arrayed against him.

"Don't worry," he said, with a voice deep and melodious, the voice of an old man, and the soldier had to take a second look to make sure that it was the man who was talking. "

We will not fail," the man continued "for we cannot. The burden of protection of the whole world falls upon our shoulders at this very moment, and we will rise the occasion and send these scum back to whatever dark pit they dared crawl out of." His voice rose until the entire army could hear him.

"We will cause these pathetic excuse for beings to regret the day they were spawned, we will crush their power until they beg to be let to crawl back to their master and receive any punishment that he deems fit. We will not falter, nor fail, for we alone are righteous. We fight to protect what is rightfully ours: our lands, our homes, our livelihood, and, most important of all, our families. I am with you. We will not fall." The man uttered this last sentence with utter certainty, as if he already had seen the future.

"What is your name, soldier?" He asked the young man.

"Michael," he replied, his eyes glittering with newfound strength.

"A good name," the man said approvingly. "Well, Michael, are you ready to fight for more then your life? Are you ready to bathe both your blade and soul in the blood of your enemies, and forge both anew?"

He needed no answer, for Michael's look said it all: he was ready. No matter what would happen, he would not rest until he had proven himself a worthy warrior, he would not falter until his body broke beyond recognition, he would follow this man to the gates of hell itself.

The man's eyes turned the color of ice, cold, sharp, and unyielding. He knew that neither side would give or receive mercy. He raised his right hand, and a brilliantly glittering sword appeared in it, shining with a cold light that bespoke and edge beyond mortal comprehension, able to sever the very soul from the body.

The man raised this cold weapon above his head and began to run toward the front of the group, slowly at first, but gaining speed. As he ran, he began to yell, a deep sound that started in the back of his throat and grew in intensity until every fiber of his being was reflected in the deep, mindless roar. It told of a strength that surpassed that of steel, of an immovable refusal to back down, stronger than mountains, of a thirst for the blood of these mindless wretches who would dare to even comprehend harming those he held dear. As one wave of men clashed with the other, the darkness retreated, and, for a moment, was completely engulfed by the light. The soldiers arrayed in white hacked left and right, performing a gloriously macabre ballet. They were fierce and untouchable, with handsome visages distorted with expressions of pure, uncontainable anger. Their rage would not be denied, and the dark men broke, retreating deeper into the cave, until none stood before the shining horde.

Several of the men laughed out of sheer exhilaration, and waved their weapons in the air, baying out a final challenge to the retreating mass. They were drunk on the taste of victory, the intoxicating sensation driving them to recklessness. Several of the younger, more eager gave chase, hoping to win further glory for themselves. The older and wiser cleaned off their weapons, resting and regaining their strength.

Michael stood in the midst of the carnage, his sword dripping red with the blood of those he had slain. The man, white hair untouched by the gore slowly made his way toward him, carefully picking his way around the bodies. He looked at the young soldier with a tilt to his head that suggested that he was truly seeing him for the first time.

"So," he began. "You have made your first kill."

"My first three, actually," said the young man.

"Of course," the man said easily. "I would have expected no less. How does it feel to have taken a life?"

Michael stared off into the distance, his eyes glazing as he collected his thoughts.

"Well," he started, in a slow voice, considering every word. "I started this journey out of a desire to serve those who were dear to me. I fully expected to turn into a bloodthirsty monster. I spent many nights awake, thinking, and finally came to the conclusion that I needed to do this for those who could not protect themselves." The red light caused his eyes to dance, and the weight of the ages seemed to settle on his shoulders: "However, I cannot justify the fact that I willingly stole somebody else's life, and took a certain pleasure out of it. I…" he broke off, unable to continue.

"Don't worry," the man said soothingly, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You only did what you had to. No less. You have made a sacrifice that will be remembered for all time. You must bear the burden of this guilt so the innocent might survive. It is the cost of liberty."

Michael looked up, completely vulnerable in that instant, wanting desperately to believe him. He bowed his head and took a deep breath.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

The man turned, a frown appearing on his face. He was not alerted by a sudden noise, but rather by a sudden absence of noise. The men who had run on ahead were silent. No sounds of bloodshed or shouts of victory floated back through the caves.

"Ready yourself," the man said, turning to Michael.

"What?" began the soldier, but was quickly silenced by an urgent wave of the man's hand. The man's posture suddenly changed, his entire body tensing up, preparing for a struggle. He sheathed his sword, and slipped his hands into his deep pockets, crouching down and steadying himself.

Suddenly, a thump reverberated down the corridor. Then another and another, like a steady heartbeat. The man pulled out a slim book and began to read quietly and calmly but rapidly, eyes easily making out words, even in the half-light. Michael took a step back and raised his sword with shaking hands. He felt a terror unlike any other he had ever experienced. His breath came in quick gasps, his pulse raced erratically, beating out a maniac tempo in his ears, and still the noise continues.

Ba-bump, the reverberations of a giant drum.

Ba-bump, a castle being pounded by massive stones thrown by giants.

Ba-bump, high crests of red blood crashing on a black shore.

The deep pounding grew louder and seemed to close in on the men from all sides. Michael tried to still his nerves, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes, imagining himself with his family, protecting them from the unknown menace. His eyes opened, sharp with determination. Then he saw the figure.

It looked like a man. Not a wild beast, not a bloodthirsty demon from hell and beyond, but a man. He wore a simple tunic, head bare and brown hair falling messily over his eyes and stood in a relaxed pose, hands unoccupied and dangling by his sides. He was utterly, unquestionably, mind-numbingly terrifying. He projected a terrible aura that smothered, suffocated, and wormed its way through minds and whispered evil thins in innocent ears. Half-formed shapes writhed in the darkness behind him. The air was filled with the screams of tortured men, the smell of burning flesh and the thick, metallic, taste of blood.

Michael slid to the ground, sword falling from numb fingers. The young man felt horribly exposed, as if his very soul were being held closer and closer to an exposed flame. He glanced desperately around the cave, hoping for something to hide behind, something to keep the presence at bay with, and his eyes fell upon the white-haired man. The apparition's appearance had caused no change in his rapid reading of his little book. His eyes darted over the pages, and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. His body was suffused with a dim glow that grew brighter with every word he spoke.

The young soldier watched, transfixed, as, with a final word, the man closed the book and brought his hands in front of him, forming a hole between his finger and calmly gazing at the figure through it, like a child would. The dark form hesitated, uncertain.

"The price of life is death, and payment is due" the man said, calmly, and the glowing aura that surrounded him condensed into a single point in between his fingers, and shot out at the figure, enveloping in a pillar of white light so brilliant that Michael had to turn his face away. The light enveloped the dark figure, wrapping itself around the swirling shapes and lighting the entire cave with a brilliance that shone like the sun. The figure let out a terrible wail, falling to its knees.

The man tried to straighten up, but staggered under the effort that his litany has taken, face glistening with his exertion. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and said something unintelligible over the tortured screams of the demon. Michael stood on shaky feet, beginning to regain his composure. He saw the man slip the volume back into his pocket and turn from the writhing figure. He saw the figure stop writhing and screaming, and start chuckling, a deep sound that rubbed salt onto a bare soul.

Quick as lightning jumps from the sky, the demon leapt to his feet, summoning a black sword from the darkness and sprang at the man. Michael shouted out a quick warning and drew his sword. The man turned, alert, but too tired to defend himself. The young soldier moved without hesitation, throwing himself between the two combatants and raising his sword. The hard steel met dense flesh, almost buckling under the strain. The being's dark sword was also raised, parting armor, flesh, and blood like water.

The man stared, blank-faced and wide-eyed at a scene that he could not comprehend. He knelt down, ignoring the final spasms of the demon, and picked up the soldier's head and rested it in his lap.

"Why?" he asked, face twisted with uncertainty, eyes uncomprehending.

The young man struggled to say something, but he was fading fast. He took a shuddering breath, drawing the rest of his soul into three short words: "It was right…" His eyes glazed, and his body relaxed for an eternal slumber.

The man sat there in the darkness for a long, long time, holding the body of the dead soldier and thinking on those words.

False Gods, Fallen Angels

By: Second Circle


End file.
